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He is the hero here,
Going around without a fear,
Defeating monsters of every kind,
Challenging every one he finds,
And crowned a knight from a grateful king,
Yes, everyone's hero, with swords and other things-
His mother looks outside,
And what does she see there?
Her little boy of five,
Swinging a stick through the empty air.
And bowing proud
To an invisible crowd,
And kneeling before a make-believe king,
Shouting, "Yes, I am your hero, with my horse and shield and other things!"
In third grade a school,
The teacher stands in front,
Her composure sweet and cool,
She says, "This is what I want..."
Soon the class sets off,
Drawing on their sheets,
Butterflies and snakes,
Ballet shoes and soccer cleats.
When it's time to share,
The boy raises up his hand,
But when he shows his paper,
Nothing at all is there.
The class looks around, confused,
Wondering what this thing could be,
And the boy says proudly, "It's
A polar bear in a snowstorm, why can't you all see?"
The teacher smiles patiently and
Says that he's done well,
For imagination's power
Lives strong in his heart still.
But by the time that he's eleven
Things begin to change.
He finds less fun in the games
That used to be like heaven.
He prefers the computer now,
Or perhaps soccer with his friends,
Either way, that powerful imagination
Is at the beginning of its end.
And by fifteen he's seen a lot,
He has completely stopped believing,
Those kings and knights and princesses-
No more than childish dreaming.
But still he thinks, perhaps,
That he could do anything,
That with just some luck and courage
He could be this world's king.
Oh, but by twenty four?
He thinks he knows the reality
Of being middle class or poor,
That in this world
Being a hero, a knight a king-
It's only for children, those make-believe things.
And his imagination's
Buried deep inside,
As he works a desk job
And begins to lose his pride.
But something happens,
Here between twenty four and thirty.
And simply he finds himself at a fancy restaurant, proposing.
The wedding's held and he
Is happy beyond his dreams,
And maybe imagination
Isn't as childish as it seems.
A few years later, he's standing at the door,
Watching happily as his own boy of four,
Is fighting, running,
And bowing proud
Before an invisible crowd,
Being crowned a knight by a make-believe king,
With swords and shields and other things.
And although he himself can't see the king,
Wherever he may lie,
He knows that all those things
Are real to his boy's eyes.
And since that day he's never doubted
In a single thing
That he might come up with
In his imagination or his dreams.
So maybe imagination isn't just for kids.
Maybe if you tried, you would never have to part.
Maybe imagination's not a matter of believing,
Because it lives forever inside your heart.